Chapter 112 The South Road

  Cold mist hovered near the River Port of Avalon, weaving through the pilings with a languid, breath-like motion. As the sun crested the eastern ridge, its faint golden light stretched over the water, reaching the royal barge, a ship of white oak and blue banners, distinguished by the shining seal of the Crown Prince at its front.

  The aroma of moist stone, river sediment, and a subtle blend of oil and varnished wood was present. People and nobles congregated by the riverbanks, their garments gleaming in the moist atmosphere. A path to the quay, where Lord Eldric of Avalon and Crown Prince Caedmon were waiting by the ropes, had been cleared by the guards.

  Their words were low and private, lost beneath the creak of the docks and the murmur of the crowd. Yet all could see the weight in their bearing—the stiffness of duty pressed against the edge of distrust.

  When the prince reached into his cloak and drew forth a small velvet pouch, sealed with gold thread and the royal signet, the watchers stirred. He handed it to Lord Eldric with a measured nod, his gloved hand lingering for a moment as if to anchor the gesture in significance. Eldric accepted it, grave and unmoving, his other hand resting upon the pommel of his sword.

  From the rise above the quay, Aureline of the Galeden Vale watched the exchange. She sat in her wheeled chair, wrapped in a shawl of deep green, her silver eyes fixed on the figures below. Beside her stood her father, Lord Calven, brother-in-law to the Vale’s lord. The wind tugged at the edges of his cloak as he leaned forward to follow her gaze.

  The bargemen called their signals, ropes uncoiled, and the prince’s vessel eased into the current. Oars dipped in rhythmic precision, the water catching sunlight in long, gilded streaks. As the barge glided past the city’s lower terraces, horns from the watchtowers sounded a deep farewell that echoed through the valley.

  Aureline waited for the cheering to rise—waited until the city’s farewell swelled into song before turning to her father.

  “So,” she said with deceptive sweetness, “The Minister of Commerce wasn’t here today.”

  Calven blinked. “Hmm?”

  “Minister Varen,” she said, the name flat, like she was naming something dull. “I overheard he took quite a fall at the ball last night. He was carried aboard earlier. Unfortunate, really.”

  Calven gave a half-smile, half-grimace. “Unfortunate, yes. Though some say it was the wine that felled him, not the floor.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Aureline said primly. Her tone carried the faintest glint of mischief. “I think the floor knew him better than most.”

  Her father laughed—a low, uncertain sound—as he began to wheel her chair toward their waiting carriage.

  “Strange humor, my daughter. You sound like your mother when she’s plotting something.”

  “Perhaps I am,” Aureline murmured, glancing one last time toward the river, where the barge had become a silver gleam against the bend of mist. Then, lightly, “When we return home, I must speak to Mother about your shoes.”

  Calven paused mid-step, looking down at his boots. “My… shoes?”

  “Yes,” she said solemnly. “They’re dreadful, Father. Worn at the heel. Untrustworthy. And you know what happens to men with untrustworthy shoes.”

  Calven arched a brow. “They slip?”

  “They fall,” Aureline said, eyes sparkling. “And I should hate to see you share the minister’s fate.”

  He gave her a long, bemused look before shaking his head, muttering something about “the dangerous wit of Galeden women” as he steered her onto the cobblestone road.

  Behind them, the horns of Avalon echoed once more, soft and resonant, carrying upriver as the prince’s vessel disappeared into the morning fog—a sound that was farewell, and perhaps, a quiet warning.

  …

  By the time the Crown Prince’s barge vanished around the last bend of the river, Lord Eldric was already striding back toward the citadel. The crowd still lingered along the docks, their voices a fading roar behind him. His boots struck the cobbles in a rhythm that matched the beat of his thoughts — tight, deliberate, measured.

  He had no time to waste. He needed to join with Lord Branric Luceron of Litus Solis and the “levy” caravan that he had held back for three days now, carts loaded and horses restless, their departure delayed while Eldric balanced politics, pride, and the Crown.

  The air atop the city road was sharp and clean, the distant mountains beyond still shrouded in morning mist. Bells from the city center tolled faintly behind him as the citadel came into view — stone and wood, its banners stirring in the wind like the breath of the vale itself.

  Inside, the halls buzzed with restrained energy. Servants hurried to pack ledgers, provisions, and weapons for the southern journey. The Prince’s parting gift — the sealed velvet pouch — rested heavily at Eldric’s side. He asked for it last night and was surprised when the Crown Prince agreed to produce it. It would be a key or a noose to finally put this treachery to death.

  When he entered his room to change into traveling gear, his family was already waiting.

  Lady Seraphine stood beside the great hearth, her golden hair catching the firelight like frost. Aldric, eldest and bold, wore the impatient look of a man ready for battle. Lisette, ever bright and irreverent, was already dressed in her traveling gear and cape, while whispering something to her brother across the table — a comment that earned her mother’s quiet frown.

  Eldric stopped at the threshold, surveying them with the weariness of a man who had carried too many burdens for too long.

  “You’re early,” he said simply.

  His tone carried the hint of warning that came with command, but it did little good.

  Seraphine folded her hands before her. “We thought we’d save you the trouble of finding us later,” she said. “You’re going south. We’re coming with you.”

  Aldric crossed his arms in firm agreement. “It’s time we all see the Sea again. We have family there — and he should not recover alone.”

  Lisette, perched on the edge of a chair, added sweetly, “We’ll behave, Father. Probably.”

  Eldric exhaled through his nose, half amusement, half frustration. “No. Not this time.”

  The word cut across the room like drawn steel.

  Before they could speak, he went on.

  “The citadel still hosts half the nobles of the Marches. The Crown Prince’s men are not yet gone from the city. If we all vanish south, it sends a message none of us can afford. You will stay here. Hold court. Maintain the illusion that Avalon stands strong and unshaken.”

  Seraphine’s eyes narrowed. “Illusion?”

  He met her gaze. “For now, that’s what keeps the kingdom at bay.”

  There was silence — heavy, stubborn silence — until Aldric broke it.

  “And Caelen?” he asked quietly. “You’ll see him?”

  “I will,” Eldric said. “And I will carry your letters — if you’ve written anything new that you didn’t send with the White Company.”

  Lisette rose then, her expression softening. “Tell him we miss him. And that Mother still scolds us in his name.”

  That drew a brief, genuine smile from Seraphine. “He’ll like that,” she murmured. Then, more sternly, “But Eldric — don’t let pride drive you into folly. The levy plot is heavier than before. You cannot bear it alone.”

  He nodded once, the lines around his mouth deepening. “That is why I must go. To see how far our strength and laws can stretch before they break.”

  The steward entered then, bowing sharply. “My lord, the wagons are ready. The Lord Branric Luceron and the steward await at the southern gate.”

  Eldric turned to his family, his hand brushing lightly across Lisette’s shoulder — a rare, wordless gesture of affection.

  “Keep the hearth lit,” he said quietly. “If a storm breaks, I’ll send word.” Turning to his wife, “Meet with Eastwatch and let them know I will send his people to him for justice!”

  As he left the hall, the echo of his boots carried through the corridors, swallowed by the hum of preparation.

  Outside, banners snapped in the wind, and the sound of the caravan’s bells drifted faintly up from the lower court.

  Lady Seraphine stood by the window long after he was gone, her reflection caught in the glass.

  “He thinks we’ll stay,” she said softly.

  Lisette tilted her head, mischievous light dancing in her eyes. “Will we?”

  Her mother smiled faintly. “We’ll see what the letters say first.”

  And somewhere beyond the mountains, the road south waited—dust rising, wheels creaking, and the weight of a realm balanced between duty and defiance.

  …

  The same day the weclome party was held at the Citadel, Sergeant Thom Rell of the White Company spat the taste of half-frozen mud from his mouth and pulled his cloak tighter against the drizzle that had begun to seep through the canopy of the lower forests. The Southern Road — if one had the generosity to call it a road — was little more than a gouged scar of ice, mud, and stone winding through tangled roots and dripping moss. Every step squelched. Every cart wheel groaned like a dying ox.

  Behind him trudged fifty men, all on foot, boots caked to the knee, their tempers worn thin. Three ox-drawn wagons followed at a crawl, each stacked high with crates of provisions, tent canvas, and the cumbersome iron tools that someone in Avalon thought necessary for “temporary encampment.”

  Thom had read the orders twice, then once more for good measure. They had not improved on rereading.

  “Proceed south to the Gloamhollow. Establish contact. You will know the place when you meet Tiberian and Pit again.”

  “Know it when we meet them,” Thom muttered, pushing a branch aside. “Veils preserve me from poets and nobles giving orders.”

  He’d known the boys well enough — guards once at Avalon Manor — but this? Fifty soldiers to march into a cursed forest to find a misty hole in the ground? He’d confirmed the orders twice, and both times the clerks in the citadel had looked at him as though he were the fool.

  The first day had been tolerable—the second, miserable. By the third, boars had begun charging through their camps at night, spooking the oxen and scattering half the tents into the underbrush. One of the men swore the smell of the dried rations drew the creatures. Another swore they were ghosts. Thom swore at both men and pigs.

  “Fill the water casks before you reach the Hollow,” the clerk had said. “You’ll find nothing but rot and moaning mists once you’re there.”

  So they’d filled them — every last barrel and skin — until the oxen nearly collapsed beneath the weight. The men had cursed him for it, but Thom Rell had been a sergeant too long to ignore a warning, even from fools.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  By late afternoon of the fifth day, their progress was interrupted yet again.

  A caravan appeared ahead on the trail — wagons of merchants and traders bound for Litus Solis, crawling along at the same miserable pace.

  The lead carter hailed them.

  “You’re close to the Hollow,” he said, spitting into the mud. “You’ll smell it before you see it. Stinks of rot and dead rain.”

  Thom nodded grimly, motioning his men onward. But the further they went, the less it stank. The air grew damp, yes, but not foul — and the forest, instead of closing in, began to thin.

  When the caravan master pointed toward an open valley stretching northward, his brow furrowed.

  “That’s Gloamhollow,” he said uncertainly. “Or should be. But…”

  The man trailed off, staring.

  Thom followed his gaze — and stopped dead.

  The valley was alive.

  A wooden barrier with stakes ringed the entrance in a rough defensive wall. Smoke rose from unseen forges and chimneys. Men and women moved between rows of homes tiled and smooth with mortar. A mound on the near side of the opening showed signs of recent work — simple cranes, winches, and what looked suspiciously like a palisade in progress.

  “Bless me,” one of the soldiers muttered. “The cursed place’s gone civilized.”

  The caravan drivers muttered among themselves, eager to move on, not wanting to be involved in whatever strange enterprise was taking place here. They left at speed, but Thom and his men pressed forward.

  As they neared the perimeter, he saw dwarves — stocky figures hauling beams and shouting over the din of hammers. And then, from the slope above, a familiar voice.

  “Sergeant Rell! Took you long enough!”

  Thom looked up to see Pit, younger and broader than he remembered, grinning down at him from the ridge. He descended the path at a jog, boots leaving prints in the packed earth.

  “Well, you’re probably late,” Pit chirped, clapping the sergeant on the shoulder. “But I’ll take you to him.”

  “Him?” Thom echoed, brow raised. “You mean the… The commander?”

  Pit only smiled. “Aye. I guess he is something like that.”

  The White Company followed, still muttering.

  The deeper they went, the more impossible it seemed. There were kilns glowing red beneath stone arches, blacksmiths hammering tools, and channels of running water carefully directed through carved trenches. The smell was clean — mineral and sharp — nothing like the fetid swamp they’d been warned about.

  Thom’s men fell silent as they came upon children at the fountain. It stood at the heart of the small village, carved of veined stone, clear water spilling from its mouth into a wide basin. The sound of it was soft, musical — utterly out of place in a land once whispered about in fear.

  The soldiers stared. Then one laughed.

  “Well, Sergeant,” the man said, grinning, “you made us haul half the river on our backs, and they’ve got a bloody fountain waiting for us.”

  Another chimed in, “Maybe you should learn to read a map, Sergeant. Seems you’ve been leading us into hell, and you found paradise instead.”

  Thom didn’t answer. His eyes lingered on the workers, on the strange order that hummed beneath the chaos of labor.

  Whatever this was, it wasn’t a cursed place.

  It was becoming something else.

  He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Veils preserve me,” he muttered. “This is not the Hollow they warned us about…”

  …

  Sergeant Thom Rell followed Pit deeper in the hollow, boots thudding on the packed earth. The hollow opened before him like a living thing — a bowl of light and motion where industry hummed instead of ghosts. Every corner was alive with work: wood being cut, stone being shaped, smoke curling from forges and kilns.

  People moved with purpose — men, women, even dwarves and youths — each carrying tools or bundles of material. What struck Thom most wasn’t the busyness but the order of it. Rows of new homes lined the inner curve of the valley, each one built of timber and stone fitted tight, the seams sealed against the mountain wind. Their windows were shuttered. Their chimneys smoked clean.

  He’d seen military camps less organized.

  “Your men can rest by the fountain,” Pit called over his shoulder, gesturing toward the heart of the hollow. “Rest and relax, water enough for all. Tell them to behave. The commander doesn’t tolerate idleness or stupidity.”

  Rell nodded, then muttered under his breath, “He’s only fifteen, isn’t he?”

  Pit grinned without answering and pushed open the heavy door of a low, broad building south of the row homes — the coopery, by the smell of oak and pitch. The air inside was warm and thick with the scent of new barrels. Dozens of casks lined the walls, stacked like fortifications. Men worked silently with adzes and irons, shaving staves to perfect curves.

  And at the center of it all stood the boy.

  Not the pale, sickly child Thom had expected. This one had color in his cheeks, the steady posture of a commander, and eyes that seemed older than his years — sharp, watchful, heavy with thought. His tunic was plain, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands stained with ink and resin. He looked more craftsman than noble… until he looked up.

  That gaze stopped Thom mid-step.

  The boy’s eyes traveled over him — boots, sword, belt, face — measuring him as though he were an entry in a ledger or a weapon to be weighed. Then the young man spoke, his voice halting only slightly on the hard consonants, like someone learning to master his tongue again.

  “I welcome you, Sergeant Thom Rell,” he said. “Welcome to the Hollow. We will get you settled, and then… we will address your tasks and the training of the company. Much to do before the rest arrive.”

  The words were careful, deliberate — a craftsman’s work. Yet they carried the unmistakable authority of command.

  Pit blinked, caught off guard by the string of clear sentences. Then, with a grin: “By the Veils, he can talk.”

  A faint flicker of amusement — or warning — crossed the boy’s eyes. His tone sharpened.

  “Pit. Ad tabulam arenariam – Castra.”

  The old tongue rolled strangely from his tongue — rough but precise. Pit’s grin faded.

  “Aye, Commander,” he said quickly, moving toward the far end of the coopery where a wide sand table sat under a window.

  Thom followed, curiosity prickling the back of his neck. The table was an intricate model of the valley and its approaches.

  Pit began to gesture as the boy approached, the two of them murmuring about castra and formations. Thom saw they were pointing to the mound in the mouth of the hollow where a fortified camp was being raised.

  The sergeant felt his disbelief deepen. Whoever had built this had more than imagination — they had strategy.

  He cleared his throat and saluted again, less formally this time. “Commander… I’d been told this was a cursed place. Didn’t expect to find a blooming town.”

  The boy glanced up from the sand table. For a heartbeat, his youth returned — just a flicker of weariness behind the eyes.

  “Never cursed, only broken,” he said simply. “Now… hope renewed.”

  Then he turned back to the table, pointing to a line of wooden figurines representing the White Company.

  “You will camp here. Castra primum. Inspected today, by tomorrow, train and work.”

  Thom nodded slowly, still trying to reconcile the voice of command with the boy’s small frame.

  He wasn’t sure whether to be proud or afraid.

  Outside, the hollow buzzed with evening life — hammers ringing like distant bells, the fountain whispering in the dark. Somewhere beyond the forges, the mist began to rise again from the lower hollow, curling low and white like a ghost displaced.

  And for the first time in his career, Sergeant Thom Rell felt the weight of something larger than an order.

  He felt the weight of purpose.

  …

  The sound of boots on stone and gravel followed as the men of the White Company climbed the mound into the large camp. Ahead, the ground had been leveled and pressed smooth, like a soldier’s parade ground — an entire camp spread before them in precise order and geometry.

  Sergeant Thom Rell slowed, blinking at what he saw.

  The Castra, as Pit had called it — from the old tongue for marching camp — was no rough bivouac. Rows of heavy canvas tents stood in symmetrical lines, the ground between them graveled and drained by narrow ditches. Small wooden walkways crossed the mud at right angles. Stone fire pits, each neatly set within marked circles. Even the latrines were positioned at exact distances, downwind.

  “Veils above,” one of the corporals murmured. “This isn’t a camp. It’s a fortress with tent poles.” Rell grunted in agreement. “Aye.”

  Around the perimeter, sharpened stakes had been driven into the earth, forming a half-finished palisade. Near the gate, dwarf masons worked in teams, tamping earth, stacking timber, and shouting to one another in their deep, guttural tongue.

  To the soldiers’ astonishment, the dwarves immediately descended upon their wagons, heaving up the heavy barrels and crates as though they weighed nothing. In short order, the supplies were hauled into the storage shelters and sealed away, each item logged and marked with chalk on a slate by a young woman.

  Rell’s men watched in disbelief.

  “Sergeant,” one called out, “they’re taking the barrels!”

  “Aye,” Rell replied dryly, arms crossed. “And they’re doing it faster than you ever could. So let them.”

  He was about to add something more when Pit’s voice rose from the road ahead.

  “Sargent! Form your troop!”

  The White Company shuffled into ranks, boots thudding into place out of habit. The murmurs quieted. But when Pit announced that their commander was on his way, the muttering began again — low, disbelieving.

  “Commander?” one whispered. “He means the Avalon boy, doesn’t he?”

  Another snorted. “Aye. The one the fever took. They said he’d never walk again.”

  “Never walk,” a third muttered, “and now he commands a company?”

  Rell said nothing. He’d heard the same stories — of Lord Eldric’s second son, struck down by sickness, soulbound by some unholy curse. The tales that came from Avalon had the weight of legend and warning. Even he had expected a child — pale, frail, barely breathing.

  But the Hollow had already upended his expectations once today.

  From across the yard, the sound of boots on packed dirt drew their attention. The workers straightened, pausing in their labors. The boy came walking down the line of tents, his pace deliberate, measured. Pit followed half a step behind him.

  He was not tall, but there was presence in the way he moved — the kind of presence that made men go quiet without knowing why. His clothes were plain but clean, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, and there was ink on his fingers. His eyes — clear and bright — scanned the company like an officer born.

  Rell barked, “Company — attention!”

  The fifty men snapped to position. The air grew still.

  The boy stopped before them, his expression unreadable. Then, in a voice that carried across the Castra, he spoke:

  “White Company. You stand in Avalon’s hollow — our hollow. You will train here. You will live here. And when you leave, you will be soldiers of the Vale, not ghosts of its past.”

  His tone was uneven, a rhythm caught between youth and command, but the words were iron.

  The men exchanged glances — uncertain, uneasy, and yet… listening.

  Sergeant Rell stepped forward, saluting crisply. “First Battalion, White Company, present and accounted for, Commander.”

  The boy nodded once. “Good.”

  Then, turning slightly, he pointed toward the sand table beside the gate, where lines of wood and chalk outlined formations and roads. “Pit. Show them where their quarters are. By tomorrow — drills.”

  Rell exhaled through his nose, half in disbelief. Around him, the men began to murmur again, voices hushed.

  “That’s him,” one said. “By the Veils, he’s just a boy.” “A boy who commands dwarves, fountains, and camps that’d shame the Crown’s army,” another whispered back.

  Rell silenced them with a glance, though even he could not help the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

  “Whatever else he is,” the sergeant said quietly, “he’s not what we were told.”

  And as the sun sank behind the ridge, the Castra filled with light — torches flickering in perfect order — and the White Company realized that the cursed valley they’d been sent to find had become something far stranger.

  …

  The air cooled as the evening drew in, and Caelen began to walk the line of tents.

  Fatigue showed in their slumped shoulders and dirty uniforms as the White Company men remained at attention by their tents. Beyond the ordered tent encampment, the campfires painted lengthy amber streaks, accompanied by the unwavering pulse of hammer and forge work.

  Caelen moved slowly, his gait deliberate, eyes sharp as he passed from man to man.

  He said little, but his gaze was weight enough — not cruel, not suspicious, simply seeing.

  Every strap, every scabbard, every buckle seemed to come under his scrutiny.

  Without warning, he stopped.

  “You, and you… and you.”

  His hand lifted, finger steady. Three men — chosen at seeming random — blinked, uncertain.

  “Go to Healer Renn,” Caelen said simply. Pointing to a young man in gray near a fire pit.

  They hesitated. One of the corporals murmured the order again, and the three trudged forward.

  “Sit,” he said curtly. “Boots off.”

  One of the older soldiers — a grizzled veteran with a scar cutting through his beard — stiffened. “My boots stay on. Don’t need any hedge healer looking at my feet.”

  From his place down the line, Thom Rell turned, brows knitting. He took a few steps closer, uncertain what the boy would do.

  Caelen’s tone remained polite, almost gentle. But there was iron in the way he spoke.“If soldier does not walk, then msn is not soldier. If not soldier, then no honor.”

  The words fell into the quiet like stones into water.

  The older man glared — but something in the boy’s stillness, in the simple certainty of those words, broke through his pride. Slowly, with a grunt, he bent down and tugged off his boots.

  A rank smell rose instantly from the cracked leather. The veteran’s feet were swollen, blistered, and raw where skin had split. The other two men were no better off — sores from damp marches, blackened nails from cold rot.

  Renn clicked his tongue, muttering as he fetched clean water and salves.

  “You’re lucky the commander noticed before gangrene did,” he said. “You’ll not march a mile if this spreads.”

  The soldiers looked ashamed, as if their feet were some personal failure.

  Renn knelt and began cleaning the wounds, his movements brisk but practiced. “They will all need the baths,” he said at last, glancing up at Caelen. “At least these three, but likely the whole company.”

  Caelen nodded, folding his arms. “In groups of ten. Only if behave.”

  The sergeant’s lips twitched — half amusement, half disbelief — at the phrasing, but he said nothing. The men murmured among themselves, surprised that the boy’s orders came without hesitation or uncertainty.

  It was then that Tib appeared at the edge of the camp, his tunic stained, a pilum still slung across his shoulder.

  “We’re back from the boar hunt,” he called, grinning. “Nine.”

  Caelen turned toward him, expression unreadable, then inclined his head slightly.

  “Take them to the trough. Prep them.”

  A few of the younger soldiers turned, eyes wide. “Nine?” one whispered. “How many men did they take for that hunt?”

  “Six,” another answered. “We could barely drive off four.”

  “Then maybe,” the sergeant said dryly, “you’d best not pick fights with boars that are trained better than you.”

  A ripple of quiet laughter followed.

  Even Caelen’s mouth curved faintly at the edge — a boy’s flicker of humor breaking through command.

  The laughter faded as quickly as it came, replaced by something quieter: a dawning respect.

  The men expecting to serve under a crippled child, a rumor made flesh.

  That night, as the lamps glowed in ordered lines along the Castra, the White Company began to understand the strange truth whispered through the Hollow: they found a commander.